


amoris iter

by bluescat



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Developing Relationship, Growing Up, M/M, Noctis Lucis Caelum Lives, Noctis Lucis Caelum-centric, Pining, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluescat/pseuds/bluescat
Summary: When Noctis is three, the Glaive is nothing but a bunch of mysterious figures: always either quiet or roaring with commanding voices, cloaked in deep black, boots stomping heavily enough to be heard from a corridor away.Around eight, with his childish mind taking shape and figuring its own interests, watching Glaives going in and out of the courtyard is the highlight of his days. Hanging dangerously far out the window, he’s entirely fascinated by the weight of full gear on the men and women, who against all the odds, still have the most energized gait that Noctis has ever witnessed.At twelve, Noctis Lucis Caelum meets Nyx Ulric.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Nyx Ulric
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67





	amoris iter

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first humble contribution to this fandom and as it would never come into being without them, I'd like to dedicate it to Mel. Thank you for showing me this wonderful universe and its characters – hopefully I did them at least half the justice they deserve.

When Noctis is three, the Glaive is nothing but a bunch of mysterious figures: always either quiet or roaring with commanding voices, cloaked in deep black, boots stomping heavily enough to be heard from a corridor away. _Thump thump thump clink_ , goes the marching sound, shiny silver of the clasps enticing the little Prince with both their sound and sight.

Around eight, with his childish mind taking shape and figuring its own interests—albeit in somewhat infantile categories like _cool_ , _eh_ and _stupid_ —watching Glaives going in and out of the courtyard is the highlight of his days. Hanging dangerously far out the window, he’s entirely fascinated by the weight of full gear on the men and women, who against all the odds, still have the most energized gait that Noctis has ever witnessed.

"When I grow up, I’ll be one of them—I’ll have a sword and slay all the daemons!" He tells his father one day, who laughs at him and ruffles the messy black hair atop his head, nodding to humor his son. At this point, neither of them really realizes just how both close and far from the truth that statement will turn out to be.

At twelve, Noctis Lucis Caelum meets Nyx Ulric.

He’s like nobody else the Prince has ever met before. Everyone around calls the group he enters Insomnia with _refugees_ , a difficult to pronounce word that means nothing to his twelve year old mind. He only knows them to have come from a far away place and their journey has been a tiring one – which he can see, really, by how sagged their shoulders are, by the deep hollows underneath their eyes. Their skin, carrying those warm, sun-kissed undertones that are so rare within Insomnian residents, is visibly dirty and bruised in places, and Noctis, in all his childish innocence, wants nothing more than to ask why aren’t they treated better as their guests, surely they could make a stop or two to rest and clean up? But as he turns to the side, looking over at Ignis, Clarus and then his father, all bearing the same pinched, grave expressions on their faces, his thin lips only press tightly together, the resolve and curiosity melting away. He knows he’d get no answers aside from the laconic diplomacy anyway.

When he looks back, the people are still barreling out of the trucks that look just like those the fresh produce comes in before official Citadel parties, and the more Noctis observes it the worse it feels. They’re rounded up more like prisoners than guests – some of them looking afraid, some angry and others simply confused. There’s only one who seems to feel no apprehensions about brazenly looking around, eyes—although tired like everyone else’s—sharp and alert, face tense and arms slightly bent at the elbows, as if getting ready either to sprint or to attack.

Little Noctis has no idea how to interpret what he sees, only that he’s infinitely curious and slightly intimidated by it. There’s also no way for him to know that the moment the man looks directly at him—gaze not softening even for a second and causing the Prince to take a slow step back, instinctively half-hiding behind Ignis’ only slightly larger at the time frame—will stay with him forever.

*

As the end of August three years later passes, everyone has declared Noctis ready to start his weapon and combat training. It feels exciting to Noctis not only because it means he’d finally fully _belong_ to this place, this family, this royal destiny, but also because it would bring him that much closer to this long idealized figure of a Glaive: someone who, to a fifteen year old Prince, appears as brave, strong and skilled.

So he trains, and trains, _and trains,_ surprising everyone with his resilience and motivation, given the lack of thereof in most of the duties that have fallen upon his princely shoulders thus far. Although very often getting frustrated and even angry with his own shortcomings, unfairly taking it out on everyone around him, he still keeps going back to meet Gladio in the training room, diligently cleaned mock weapons in hands.

A few long and tedious months in the regularly scheduled practice sessions, Noctis runs a bit behind his own agenda for the day – he gets to the training room an hour late, panting with how quickly he ran to get there at all. There’s an unmistakable sound of steel hitting against steel audible from behind the closed doors, a rhythmic _clink clink clink_ , quick and relentless, signifying a high level of skill that Noctis is able to recognize but is, sadly, still far away from himself. As he pushes the heavy door of wood and iron just barely, hoping to stay unseen, the first thing he catches through the crack barely the width of two knuckles is a bright flash of silver followed by a quick blur of black. It reminds Noctis of a daemon: dark, fast and unpredictable, and when he realizes how similar the way the night creatures and the Glaives operate are, it both petrifies and excites him.

He keeps watching, holding his breath and desperately clutching the bag to his shoulder, as Gladio and the Glaive spar, blow for blow, kick for kick. It’s more than a training, than a fight; it’s a whole choreography of movements and gestures, matching and countering. An eye for an eye, a sword for a sword, a war cry for a confidently calculated smirk. Where Gladio charges at his opponent like a tank, the Glaive is quick and light on his feet, dancing circles around the other in ways that seem to defy gravity, and Noctis is—mesmerized. He only realizes how long he’s been keeping the air in his lungs when he finally lets it out, feeling the burning in his chest and the hum in his ears.

When Noctis is sixteen, his life-long admiration for Glaives concentrates itself in one person, dancing endless battle circles inside of his head.

For the longest time, the Prince is not quite sure what to make of it all. Nyx Ulric was a commendable person for sure; from a battered war refugee—he now understands the full meaning of the word—to one of the most talked about Glaive members in just a few years, it’s a journey that not many can claim to have gone through. Noctis heard many stories about the man, whether from the officials talking around the corner, other Glaives or Gladio: how much he’s lost back in Galahd, how skilled of a soldier he became, how many people he saved, how smart he is („A goddamn smirking smartass asshole, that he is,” Gladio has put it one day, all rolling eyes and that angry drawl of his, after being completely beaten and humiliated in a particularly heated sparring session). Noctis, personally, at this point has never had the pleasure of directly interacting with him—aside from the few times they crossed paths in the training rooms, Nyx bending into a half-bow, " _Your highness”_ easy and melodic on his perpetually curved lips—so he just mainly admires him from afar, soaking in every little detail like a particularly obsessive sponge.

Much, much later, he’ll figure out that it was just the perfect storm of many details: the exoticism of faraway islands that he could only dream of visiting, the endless Glaive fascination, the drive of confident competence and the mystery and thrill of trailing after a warrior – all intertwined inside the mind of a sheltered teenager who longed for something to discover by himself, as opposed to having it presented on a platter and put right underneath his nose.

*

"Hey, _Your Highness,_ ” comes a greeting on an uncharacteristically cold April morning, resounding right the very moment Noctis pushes the training room’s door open – as if Nyx knew he’s approaching even with the barrier of the wall between them.

The Prince is seventeen and somewhat used already to the way the Glaive addresses him, seemingly curt and official, yet sounding almost as if he’s mocking Noctis’ royal title. At first, he thought that’s what it is, a simple mockery, until months upon months of observation and hands-on experience has proved that the way Nyx spoke and addressed people is just his character bleeding through his speech, always remaining so unapologetically _himself_.

Rolling eyes as Nyx performs one of these extremely exaggerated bows, his training bag is slipping from shoulder to the floor with a heavy _thump_ , eyes looking around, "Gladio not here?”

Nyx drops the act eventually, knowing there’s nobody either to judge him for lacking proper manners in presence of the Lucis royalty or to applaud his clownish antics, and relaxes quite visibly—a sight that Noctis has had a chance to get accustomed to, the little nuances of the man’s behavior fitting itself in the slots of his understanding.

"Nope. Family business, it’s just you and me today,” he announces in that eastern drawl of his, sounding half like he’s pleased and half like he’s trying to challenge his company just with his mere presence. It doesn’t really work on Noctis, as he’s more occupied by trying to contain his sudden excitement at the news—not that he particularly despises trainings with Gladio, but having a one on one with Nyx means a few things, each next more thrilling than the other:

> 1\. Change of pace – Gladio and his teaching style, although rather ruthless at times, is perfectly fine with Noctis, but Nyx, as someone who actively fights in the field, seems like a person who can offer a whole another perspective and show him things that Gladio can’t possibly even know about,
> 
> 2\. Warp training, which means fully utilizing arguably the most exciting part of Noctis’ heritage,
> 
> 3\. And finally, it’s _Nyx Ulric_ – a rather self-explanatory point that doesn’t need further follow up in Noctis’ mind.

He takes a moment to prepare, changing his shoes, taking a few sips of water, stretching the core muscles – all the while being almost painfully aware of the Glaive observing him closely from across the room. It makes him _feel_ , and quite a few things too: like he’s being preyed on, and judged, and considered.

When he turns around, he thinks he’s ready for whatever Nyx throws at him – but it turns out that, when the thing that is being thrown is the Glaive himself, _quite literally_ , Noctis’ readiness falters rather quickly. Seeing what he’s capable of, all that agility, speed, stealth and strength, is one thing – but actually being on the receiving end of it, expected to not only match but surpass it, is a whole another matter.

And to be fair, Noctis really _tries._ He does his best, not only because he truly does want to grow and improve, but because there’s this burning desire in him to _prove_ himself, to prove Nyx that he’s worth this: his time, his skill, his efforts. His attention. So he sweats, and grunts with exertion that Gladio rarely pushes him to, and picks himself up after every silly slip-up, and stands up to the fiery, challenging glint of the Glaive’s steel eyes.

"Does Your Highness need a break?” Nyx asks when their weapons meet in an echoing clink of steel, a pair of daggers withholding the pressure of a sword. The way he sounds makes Noctis want to punch him – and strike he does, effectively breaking the spar and dodging downwards to charge at the Glaive’s mid-section.

Except that when he does, expecting to collide and tackle the mass of thick bones and sturdy muscle, he just falls face forward through thin air, a fleeting gust of wind causing the tiny hair on his arms to raise just as his entire body collapses.

The room is big and high enough that it takes Noctis, rolling over on his back, an embarrassingly long few seconds to spot Nyx, crouching easily at one of the rails good six meters above and to the left of Noctis’ head. Looking down at him, smug as ever, he raises an eyebrow and twirls one of the daggers in his hand, making it seem like the gravity is a joke to him, before he throws it and warps again, now perched directly above the defeated Prince.

"Should’ve just said you felt like having a nap. I’d understand,” he calls out, appearing to be in way too good of a mood for Noctis’ liking, who just groans, frustrated and feeling like a fool. Of course he had to end up making a bumbling idiot out of himself; how could he ever think that, with his chronic pain, less then ideal coordination and lack of practice, he’s going to match the level of expertise that Nyx shows in a fight?

Opting for a telling silence rather than any kind of verbal response, he picks himself up from the floor as gracefully as he can (which, admittedly, isn’t graceful at all), feeling more like kicking the weapon away than hauling it up from the wooden parquetry. When he hears another of the unmistakable swishes of a nearby warp, it doesn’t phase him too much – the Glaive can warp circles around him for all he cares, and once Noctis gets over the overwhelming bitterness swallowing him whole, maybe he’ll even find it in himself to appreciate the ease and finesse with which he does it.

But then there is—warmth. A presence at his back so close, so alive, so tangible, that Noctis can’t be sure if it’s already physical or just that one single hair away from breaking their integrity. He can feel the steady breaths at his neck, the soft hum of it, and he’s absolutely petrified, glued to the spot that he doesn’t really feel like leaving anymore.

When a hand touches his shoulder in a contact that’s firm yet gentle—and so damn careful Noctis might’ve as well been made of the finest Accordo porcelain—there’s a shiver that runs all across his body, head to toes, and he curses himself mentally, because there is absolutely no way for Nyx to not have noticed it. It’s stronger than him though, forcing him to succumb to and relax into the source of it, all the tension and nerves gone in an instant.

It’s one way to disarm your opponent, Noctis thinks.

"Don’t give up,” the voice behind him finally speaks, in a way that the Prince has never quite heard yet: it’s a tone that’s somehow solid and affectionate, filled with support and encouragement, and it’ll take him months to try and figure out if what it told was a request, order or warning.

(He never really does.)

At seventeen, what Noctis feels turns into less of a fascination and more of an attraction.

It’s a bit of a scary realization at first, one that hits him like a speeding Chocobo beak-first, but one that, once he gives it some thought, has been slowly and steadily building up for quite a while. Being an heir to the throne comes with certain perks and disadvantages alike, yet they both make any type of socialization a difficult matter, which in turn causes rather significant obstacles in exploration of things like feelings, infatuations or intimacy. For that reason, Noctis thinks, it’s probably no surprise that it took him a significantly long moment to recognize the signs for what they are: eyes that couldn’t quite wander away from the man whenever he was in the room, heart a little heavier and faster each time they interacted, skin under the fingers itching with the need to do something— _anything_ —when he’s near.

What he used to think was some shameful kind of desperation to be noticed and liked by someone he idolized, suddenly turns into an infatuation that, surprisingly, doesn’t feel wrong at all. He’d rather deal with feelings of romantic nature than something as disgraceful and embarrassing as the burning desperation to be respected and the fear that he might not be.

After he recognizes it for what it is and decides that he doesn’t mind accepting and acting on it, against all the odds, it becomes easier.

*

Sometime in the midst of the eighteenth year of the Prince’s life, Ignis gets sick enough to get pulled from his duties and the appointed replacement as Noctis’ chamberlain ends up to be, to everyone’s surprise, none other than Nyx Ulric.

"How come _you_ are the one covering Specs’ position?” Is the first thing Noctis asks after opening the door to his apartment and seeing the Glaive on the other side of it. He looks slightly different without his official garb on, the leather jacket and well-fitted t-shirt the perfect combination of casual and still formal enough to fit within the royal entourage standards. The Prince thinks it’s slightly unfair for someone to look this good both in and out of their uniform—especially when he himself has barely rolled out of bed and didn’t even manage to properly comb his hair yet.

"You’re my penalty for insubordination,” Nyx admits in a grave tone of voice, yet still with a hint of amusement at the very edge of his words, as if unable to completely wipe the expression away.

Noctis raises an eyebrow at that, arms crossing over his chest in an instinctively defiant position and tilting his head slightly, unstyled hair flopping to the side. "Huh. Am I really that bad to take care of, to be used as a penalty?”

"Well—I don’t know, _Your Highness._ Are you gonna make this particularly hard on me?”

And it’s back to that rakish half-smile, curling just the left side of his lips and carried through the timbre of his voice, infesting everything and everyone around with its charm.

For a long time, Noctis cowered underneath it, but day by day, (night by night—but nobody has to know _that_ ), he has been getting more and more used to it, learning to withstand and work with it, until finally— _finally_ —reaching the point where he could respond to it, as opposed to just stepping back and letting it spread its infection without obstacles.

"That _depends_ —you up for a challenge?”

When Noctis pulls the door wider and takes half a step back, letting Nyx in, there’s a ghost of an electric kind of touch between their bodies when the Glaive passes him, his scent catching in Noctis’ nostrils easily. With his head bowed, there’s a quiet " _always”_ uttered, just a notch above a mere whisper, as if the greatest secret of them all has just been spoken.

And maybe it has.

Because the future Noctis will look back at this moment, at these two weeks of Nyx Ulric chamberlaining his way through the Prince’s life, and think to himself: this is probably when it all has really begun. With Nyx preparing him breakfasts that are nowhere near as tasty as those made by Ignis but bring something else to the table, something unspoken waking up between the biting jokes and growing proximity. With car rides from one place of royal duty to another—rides that become longer and longer, despite the distance between them remaining unchanging. With quiet evenings when Noctis, eyelids heavy with weariness as he pushes away the messy stack of printed papers, asks Nyx to stay a little longer even after finishing all his tasks for the day.

With Nyx, in the middle of the night, rearranging Noctis’ head against his shoulder in the gentlest of ways and staying on stand-by until dawn to watch over the Prince, unknowingly syncing himself with the easy and even in-and-out of his breathing — and remaining attuned that way for long after they’ve parted.

*

He’s nineteen when the news of Glaives finally returning from a mission gone wrong spread through the Citadel like a wildfire.

It’s that situation, if nothing else, that shows the best how much things have changed over the past ten years of the Prince’s life. While back in the days he would just sit impatiently by the strategically chosen window, with bitten fingers awaiting the comeback of the Kingsglaive in unknown state and numbers, today he takes off nearly immediately, his late rebellious streak making it easy to ignore all the lined up schedules and duties in favor of getting to the low-income residential part of the city as fast as possible.

Noctis sits on the last step of the outer staircase, leading to the third floor of one-room apartments that were assigned to the war refugees all those years ago, when Nyx finally shows up there, leaning on the handrail a bit too heavily to be considered normal.

"What’s _Your Highness_ doing here?” The question isn’t even voiced like one, almost as if the Glaive is too tired to feign surprise at this point.

"Oh, you know—just fulfilling my royal duty, checking up on you and whether you actually came back in one piece.”

"Well, how do I look?”

For once, it’s Noctis’ time to be sharp, observant and analytical. He allows his gaze to run up and down Nyx’s body, taking in the entirety of him: hair that usually never gets quite this messy, wet grey streaks on his face that suggest a very quick and inefficient clean-up with hand hastily dipped in just some water, less than desired posture of someone who’s weighted down by pain and discomfort. It’s bad—certainly worse than he’s ever seen, and it’s a visible struggle to keep it from showing on his own face.

"Like hell,” he deems eventually, pulling himself to stand up and let Nyx through to the door of his own apartment. When he limps past him, Noctis almost misses the snort as he notices the tiniest of bloodied cuts on the side of his neck, as if something exploded in thousands of pieces, shrapnel colliding with whatever stood the closest to it.

"As the future _King_ , you should definitely work on your motivational and encouragement speeches.”

It’s certainly not the first time Noctis has been inside of Nyx’s flat, the ease with which he allows himself in and closes the door behind the both of them being the testament to that – but it’s the first time he feels so on edge while being here. The extended lack of news on the Glaives’ whereabouts and nearly eerily quiet tension surrounding the subject over the past week has hit him harder than he might’ve ever expected. Seeing Nyx so tired and battered only solidified the feeling, having Noctis follow all, even the tiniest of his movements, as if needing to make sure he’s really here, back and more or less well, and not some cruel projection of the Empire’s newest piece of daemonic technology.

"Clean up while I heat up some of Specs’ food, will you? He’d have an actual heart attack if he saw you eat his gourmet creations this dirty,” he mutters, dropping two plastic containers on a kitchen counter that was barely big enough to fit them on it, much less serve the purpose of preparing an actual meal from scratch. He could never understand why this tiny, rundown hole of a place was apparently the best that Insomnia was willing to give the people tasked with protecting its entire nation.

"He’d have a heart attack knowing I eat his gourmet creations, period,” comes the reply from behind the only half-closed door to the bathroom that’s exactly as tiny as one might’ve imagined it to be, based on the rest of the flat. "How did you force him to prepare an extra portion anyway?”

Noctis busies himself with meticulously splitting the food in two, trying very hard not to think how, for the past week, he’s been feigning _extreme case of appetite_ , resulting in him _absolutely_ needing double portions of whatever Ignis made that day. He couldn’t be sure when the Glaives exactly would be back, so he decided to stay prepared just in case – not even once thinking that the day may never come.

"Just asked,” he offers evasively, like it’s no big deal at all. The microwave closes with a click and heats the food up with a hum way too loud for its tiny size.

"Uh-huh,” resounds the dubious affirmation still from the bathroom, just moments before Nyx’s head—hair damp and face significantly cleaner—peeks out from behind the door. "If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you cared enough to cook this all by yourself for me.”

No words need to be said for both of them to be all too aware of Noctis’ eyes rolling in a perfect 360 at that – just how Nyx doesn’t need to know that if the situation called for it, Noctis _would_ try to cook for him, lack of skills burned pots be damned.

As they sit, huddled together by what’s arguably the tiniest corner table in the world and eat, they barely talk. The weariness is all too apparent on Nyx—even if he tries his hardest to camouflage it with his usual wits and charms—and Noctis opts to not pry and ask about the mission’s details – whether it’s for Nyx’s or his own good. He focuses mostly on observation instead, something that he’s been favoring over talking quite a bit over the last year or so, finding that one can actually learn much more from just _watching_ than yapping around all day.

So he looks: at the shoulders that must have gotten so used to the stiff alertness of the past few days that they’re only now starting to slowly remember what it feels like to be safe and able to relax. At the hand that clutches the utensils a bit too tightly, knuckles becoming white with the instinctive effort before the mind catches up and sends the signal to his fingers that the metal spoon is not the kukris, and there’s no threat about to jump out of the bowl at him. At the eyes, slightly hooded, being both painfully focused and not there at all, like a part of him is still beyond the wall, facing whatever horrors that hid in the shadows.

At how incredibly graceful he still is in all of this, how proud and strong and everything that Noctis has admired his entire life.

"Give my compliments to the chef,” Nyx says after finishing his food, making a whole spectacle of licking fingers and letting out over-eating groans loud enough to be obscene.

Noctis shakes his head at the antics, briefly wondering who _really_ is the older one between the two of them, as he balances a stack of bowls and plates in his one hand and glasses in the other.

"Do you really want me to get grounded?” Noctis asks, dropping the cheap ceramic in the sink and letting the initial rush of water wash most of the grease off of it. He hasn’t actually done dishes in— _forever_ , probably.

"Would you really allow yourself to be grounded?”

And — he has a point, him having never responded too well to prohibitions of any kind, so Noctis strategically says nothing as he finishes cleaning up the moderate mess of Nyx’s modest kitchenette.

It’s only when he turns around, facing the Glaive’s back, that he notices the rather glaring gash slashed across the back of his shoulder. It’s deep and bloodied around the edges, glistening with fresh redness welling up after being cleaned and irritated in the shower. Noctis frowns at the sight – it’s not even the worst he’s seen and surely not the worst either Nyx or any of the other Glaives have experienced, but somehow, in this particular moment, it hits him differently.

There’s very little thought going into it when he reaches out, slowly slowly _slowly_ , knuckles grazing the edge of a soft cotton sleeveless shirt as the fingertips touch the skin just millimeters away from the wound. It’s almost unnaturally hot to the touch, temperature matching the angry red shade of it. And while he can’t see it, he can most definitely feel the tiniest of jumps of the muscles underneath the flesh, reacting to the unexpected touch in the only instinctive way the body knows.

He doesn’t move away though, remaining calm and— _trusting_ , Noctis would like to think.

"You’re hurt.”

It sounds entirely silly, stating the obvious out in the open like that, and Noctis almost wishes he’d have swallowed the words and choked on them instead.

But then Nyx laughs, the kind of short laughter that Noctis just _knows_ is accompanied by one of these signature half-smirks, and maybe—maybe saying it wasn’t all that bad.

"Yeah, kinda comes with the profession. Protecting the Kingdom, slaying the daemons, fighting the hostile Empire, you know—all that.”

He almost cuts through the Glaive’s irony-loaded monologue with how eager and low-key desperate he feels, saying, "Let me treat this.”

"It’s fine—”

"Do I really need to say that this is a royal order?”

And this—this is the right thing to say, the long, heavy sigh escaping the set of thin lips tells him. Because even though Nyx is a refugee, often regarded as fighting a war that doesn’t even belong to him, for lands that he doesn’t belong to, he’s still so sincerely and completely loyal and devoted to this King, his kingdom and the orders that revolve around it. They both know he’d never oppose the royal will and although Noctis may feel dirty for using it against him, it’s different when the tricks are being utilized for his own good.

"Sit on the bed for me,” Noctis instructs as his body starts moving on autopilot, seeking the small medical kit that he knows Nyx stores right under the sink. There’s not much in there, from what his both fond and amusing memory of a finger that has been cut during an intense Leiden potato peeling contest serves him, but it should be enough for a basic wound care.

The way he sits behind Nyx is careful, as if too fast of a movement could possibly hurt him even more, and everything that follows only continues this trend: dabbing the wound with a cotton ball soaked with alcohol, blowing gently to help the liquid evaporate faster, peppering a thin coating of herbal powder to speed up the healing process.

"What was it?” He asks eventually, eyeing the wound – it’s long and smooth, as if cut by a blade, but then it frays at the end, leaving a jagged edge of skin forcefully pulled apart.

"A daemon? Maybe a wild animal, enraged by the chaos around? I don’t know, we couldn’t see them,” Nyx admits, in a way so uncharacteristic for him, no fighting or teasing in his voice. "The nights have gotten much darker beyond the wall.”

Noctis turns these words over and over inside of his head as his fingertips keep aimlessly tracing the area surrounding the wound. They move slowly, almost like it’s an afterthought to everything that’s going on in his mind—to the dreadful realizations, to the fears that feel like they’re only now taking shape but must’ve been in there for quite a while now, to the unspeakable pull towards something that may as well disappear tomorrow.

It takes only the smallest tilt of his head forward to physically _feel_ the wound’s warmth on his face, the metallic smell of blood mixed with the biting scent of antiseptic hitting his nostrils in a nearly overwhelming wave. But pushes through the initial unpleasantness, knowing the goal is right underneath it, until his lips press ever so gently to the Glaive’s shoulder blade, just to the wound’s right.

The careful breath that he lets out is rugged like the lower edge of the cut, and then — then everything stills.

Noctis is surprised to find that it’s blissful more than nerve-wracking, all the silence and stillness and serenity. He’s always been made to believe that following your guts, primal instincts and selfish desires is the worst one could possibly do—especially when one is a royalty of any kind—but this doesn’t feel like a disaster. It doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t even seem polarizing in any way.

Not until—

"Noctis.”

And _that_ , Noctis is all too aware, could mean so many different things. It could be a question, one loaded with uncertainty and such an atypical for Nyx vulnerability: what do you mean? It could be a warning, inspired by wisdom that Noctis himself might not yet posses: please, think about what you’re doing. It could be a plea, a little sad, a little desperate: please, do what I—even in all my courage and heroism—am not brave enough to do.

He mulls it over for a few long moments that feel like suspended in space, like the whole world just stopped to allow him as much time as he needs for any decision he has to make. His lips linger against the warm skin, refusing to let go even in the midst of his dilemma, because a part of him knows that if he gives up now, chances are that he’ll never find the guts to try it again.

And then — then he tilts his head just barely, a minute movement, to catch Nyx’s gaze with his own. His eyes are focused as ever, always prepared to seize even the smallest details, but they’re also different somehow, more mellow, blurred around the edges. It takes Noctis a moment—simply because he’s never directly found himself at the end of this kind of look—to realize that it’s the _emotions_ that cause this curious phenomenon. And these few seconds (minutes? hours? a whole eternity?) are enough to decide that he wants to be on their receiving end forever.

Neither of them say anything after that, as instead the silent agreement passes between the two bodies, two sets of eyes, two hearts. Noctis’ hand reaches up towards Nyx’s face, fingers brushing past the scratchy hair at his jawline, while the Glaive shifts more towards the Prince in a mute invitation, giving himself in to him just how he had given his loyalty to the Crown of Lucis all these years ago. And just like his father took that faith and integrity, and molded it into what the kingdom had needed the most, so does Noctis: one hand framing the angular face and the other pressing his uninjured shoulder into the bed’s mattress, right where he wants him and where he’s seen him in his head for longer than he’d like to admit.

When they kiss, they kiss like men who crossed an entire desert and found the oasis in each other – thirsty, longing and desperate.

Noctis’ fingers dig into Nyx’s shoulder, all the waiting and anxiety of the last few days finding its outlet in the vice grip, and Nyx—after a brief moment of hesitation? surprise? disbelief?—reaches up and holds Noctis’ face in both hands, his grasp the polar oppositeof Noctis’, even despite rarely getting a chance to be any less than absolute in handling whatever it is that found its way into his hands.

There are many things to ask and discuss after this but they leave it for much, much later, when the lips are bitten red and bodies huddled as close as possible in an attempt to shield itself from the piercing cold of the dark, deep night falling over Insomnia.

*

When Noctis is twenty, he doesn’t get to say goodbye.

*

When Noctis is thirty, he’s ready to say: good to see you again.

When Noctis is thirty, despite everything, he wins a battle that leaves him tired, battered and bruised under the first rays of sun in ten years.

When Noctis is thirty, he makes his way through the city that is still half-rubble, injured leg scuffing against the concrete in a way so reminiscent of his late father that it almost physically hurts him. It takes him way too long to get to his destination, nothing like back in the days, both due to the many obstacles on his way and his own disability limiting him beyond the mind’s desires.

But when he gets there— _oh,_ when he gets there.

Despite the entire neighborhood being more or less destroyed, the inside of the tiny apartment in what has become known over the years as the Galahdian district stayed nearly untouched. Standing in the doorway and looking around, it feels as if somebody has left it just a few moments ago. One of the chairs by the table is pulled back at an angle, there are dirty dishes in the sink and a few clothing items thrown carelessly on the bed, all in various shades of black and grey that are far too familiar to Noctis.

It’s just like he has remembered it – the second home where he laughed, and agonized, and most of all, loved.

Briefly, Noctis thinks it’d be easier if it got destroyed, taking the memories away with it.

It takes a few long moments of moving around the cramped space, touching various items that hold more or less sentimental value to him, before he settles down on the very edge of the bed. It’s a small, lousy thing that has always been way too small for two grown men, and yet they always made it work somehow, Noctis reminisces, hand caressing the now dusty, slightly tacky sheets.

They didn’t have much time together, barely a few months before the whole world has gone to shit. But with today’s perspective in mind, Noctis fully realizes that to him, this has been going on for much longer than that. The love that he carried inside feels like an age old thing, going as far as he can only remember.

They deserved a goodbye, he thinks, a goodbye worthy of that kind of emotion. But proper goodbyes aren’t something that Noctis has had the pleasure of being allowed too much in his entire life.

When he cries, it’s ten years too late – and he can’t shed nearly enough tears for something— _someone_ —who stood for everything he has held dear his whole existence.

*

When Noctis is thirty-one, he makes sure nobody enters Nyx’s old apartment in the midst of rebuilding efforts for Insomnia’s slums. Time stops on the inside while changes are happening on the outside: buildings renovated, people moving back in the neighborhood, oriental scents wafting in from the nearby food stalls.

Dropping by every month, seeing the evolution of what has once been the district of the poorest, forgotten and unwanted, and is now booming with healthy middle-class life, Noctis thinks Nyx would appreciate it for what it has become.

*

When Noctis is thirty-two and doesn’t feel like crying anymore, he picks up a very _unkingly_ project of refurbishing the tiny living space. It’s not as much of an overhaul as simply a clean up and refreshment, something to keep his hands busy and bring a bit of much needed peace to the mind that’s been continuously a raging storm every time he comes by.

The chair finally gets pushed back to the table. The dishes are done and put back on the shelf over the sink. The scattered clothes get picked up, folded and hung on the rack behind the door. He paints the walls a clean off-white, polishes the wooden furniture and gives it a fresh coat of transparent varnish, mops the floors.

The photos of Nyx’s mother and sister, and that of Libertus and Crowe, get a well deserved, proper frame and find their new place on the windowsill, as does the one of the two of them: smiling at the camera, still unsuspecting of what was about to happen within the next few months.

It becomes a well-known fact that the King of Lucis makes monthly trips to the neighborhood and spends time in an old friend’s house. At some point, nobody is surprised anymore to see him buying two servings of food in one of the nearby bars.

*

When Noctis is thirty-three, he meets Nyx Ulric— _again_.

It’s one of his evenings off and away from the Citadel, two take-out boxes of food on the small table in front of him, a can of absurdly sweet and artificially scented soda on the side. There’s a single candle lightening up the place just enough, as he doesn’t feel like garnering too much attention by the actual lights announcing his presence to the whole neighborhood; and it’s—quiet. Peaceful. Having these meals by himself, with just the framed photos to keep him company, stopped feeling so overwhelmingly miserable sometime in the second year, despite what about everyone close to him thinks about it. Gladio believes he’s being rather morbid, Prompto just says it’s sad, while Ignis, bless his soul, only once suggested that he does it to punish himself – but neither of it is true, not really. Noctis likes to think of it as a tribute, and not just to Nyx, but to everything he stood up for, to everything he embodied in Noctis’ eyes.

He’s about to start eating when his keen ear catches a commotion just outside the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of the handle being pulled on. Noctis’ hand is itching and ready to summon the weapon at once, the habits never gone despite not needing to battle aside from regular trainings for quite a while. There’s not much threat out there these days – the peace that befell Lucis has been almost unnerving, the Crownsguard tends to say, and Noctis, even as the King who longs for the truce and unity more than anything else, can’t help but agree with them.

But the cloaked figure that appears in the doorway forced open does not attack him. It just stands here: dark, mysterious and commanding in its stillness in such familiar way that Noctis’ heart jumps right up to his throat and stays there.

The candle’s light flickers as the door fall closed again, causing the shadows to flutter gently against the walls, and if the situation was any different, Noctis would find it amusing, how well the visual effect fit with his own breathing pattern in this particular moment.

When the figure drops to its knee and the dark hood slides off its head, the King’s hand wouldn’t be able to draw the weapon even if it wanted to.

"Your Majesty.”

There’s no mistake that the eyes—although adorned by many new, gentle lines, as well as scarring that looks far too similar to that of Ignis’ own face—are still just as sharp, as _intense_ as ever. When they just barely gaze up at him, the body not allowing to pull itself up from the bow in an expression of absolute respect, loyalty and strength, the memories come crashing into Noctis like an ocean wave during a summer storm: sudden, powerful, vivid.

The realization that everything Noctis has ever held dear is so easily reflected by a single pair of eyes overwhelms him in the greatest of manners, and just like the wave, he crashes down and collides with the reality of his feelings head on, diving into it with no doubts or restraints.

*

At thirty-three, lying in a bed far too narrow to be considered comfortable and looking over at take-out boxes that, for the first time in years, are both empty, the plastic bag reflecting the slowly dying out candle light, Noctis finally finds peace in the embrace of both his past and future.

**Author's Note:**

> While I am aware of some plot holes towards the end of this story, it was a deliberate sacrifice for the sake of form continuity. I can only hope it will work as an incentive toward the readers’ imagination – or possibly the author’s will to create a follow up. Who knows?
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
